


Survival

by Jackeline Harkness (Jackeline_Harkness)



Series: Survival [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M, Slash, winterbones - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-13 21:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5717341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackeline_Harkness/pseuds/Jackeline%20Harkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Brock Rumlow, survival is the main directive in life.</p><p>The Winter Soldier is a tool, and Rumlow is all for using whatever tool is at his disposal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Survival.**

**Prologue.**

He’d heard a lot of things about it. Some bad, some terrible… even some good, but although he considered himself someone who learned best from experience, a comma was something he’d rather not experience. Ever.

So, of course, life decided to grant him practical knowledge, possibly as compensation for all the shit he’d had to go through in his life.

Cooper, having spent a few days in a comma, had said that it was actually kind of nice, listening to people around him as if through a door, with their words clear but not affecting him at all as he just floated in a cloud of haze, away from the pain as his body recovered from the chopper crash.

If Cooper had survived the collapse of the Triskelion, he was going to find the lying son of a bitch and fucking kill him. ’Cos it wasn’t like that at all.

The first thing he registered as his brain came back online was pain. All over his fucking body. It wasn’t the papercut sting kind of pain, either. No, it was searing agony, like all his bones had been broken, all his muscles beaten to a pulp, and all his skin scrapped off with a pair of nail clippers. He felt it all, lessening just a little when the nurses came and injected something into his IV.

The pain was only worsened by the fact that his mind was awake, but trapped in his unresponsive body.

He’d already suspected it, but he came to also know by experience that HYDRA wouldn’t hesitate to do all kinds of things to a vulnerable subject, be it a prisoner, a volunteer or a supposedly valuable agent. Some of the tests and procedures made him question all his interrogation techniques, and he was soon sure as hell that pressing for information should be left in the medical division’s hands.

After he was sure he was going to die during the torture they inflicted on him to keep him alive, he was damn sure nothing could ever be worse. He could take on the fucking Avengers or whatever menace that sprouted from another world or universe or dimension or whatever the big brains talked about.

And then, because life took pleasure on making him the butt of a never-ending joke, things got ugly for real.

“I don’t understand why we’re doing this,” some young guy complained as he took a blood sample from him, jamming the needle in as if he was injecting seasoning on a fucking turkey. Brock did his best to memorize the voice, because he was going to find the bastard and snap his neck. And smile while he was doing it.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do. Orders are orders,” said another voice, also young, but the frustration in its tone said its owner was well familiarized with wat happened when HYDRA’s orders were disobeyed or stayed uncompleted.

“Who is this guy, anyway? Why is he even so important? It’s been over a month already. If he was going to wake up, he’d be awake by now.”

Brock felt like his heart should be hammering, like his blood should be boiling in anger and frustration, but nothing changed. How the fuck had he spent a whole month like that already?

“He’s fought Rogers. Twice. And he survived.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s not the only one.”

“He was with STRIKE… I heard he’s the only one who can find the Asset.”

“The Soldier,” the young man said, in the low and awed voice that meant he’d thought him just a ghost story and still couldn’t quite believe that he was actually real. “Everyone said he was dead.”

“Some think he can’t really die,” the other chuckled, and Brock felt a strange wave of sympathy for him. “In any case, he’s not dead, but nobody’s been able to find him. They think this guy can bring him back.”

The two young men went on chatting, but Brock didn’t pay attention to them anymore. He could only think of the Winter Soldier, not dead, but in the wind. Gone rogue, perhaps. HYDRA wouldn’t let him go, they’d hunt him down to either bring him back or kill him.

Brock learned that panic could be a solely mental thing.

He tried to scream, but only the constant beeping and buzzing of the machines around him filled the room.


	2. One.

**One.**

Ever since the beginning, it was always about survival.

After a shitty childhood and even shittier teens, with a fucking dangerous job that left almost no time to spend the juicy pay, and literally no one to share anything of it with, Brock’s main personal directive was survival. Pride had also been there at some point of his existence, but it had mutated into something else. He still called it pride, for simplicity’s sake, but he knew the difference between real pride and this more practical version.

When _the incident_ happened, Brock told himself that he didn’t care, that it was just another slightly uncomfortable thing he’d had to do in order to keep himself alive, that it didn’t matter. However, he’d never been able to forget a single detail.

Brock had been excited of being in his first mission as a double agent, being among the youngest double players that were enrolled in SHIELD and also worked for HYDRA. The newly formed squad had gone in as support for a seasoned assassin, very much like a test drive, under the command of a bored-looking captain Geddes.

It was the first time he saw him, the Winter Soldier. Brock would never forget how they all gaped at him, at his imposing figure and the honestly frightening efficiency.

The mission had been gone smoothly and cleanly, up until the point where his team was supposed to herd the prisoners and get them all the hell out of the complex. Then, their tech engineer had fucked up, and everything had gone to hell.

He watched as the asset and Geddes got the prisoners moving along with them, not batting an eyelash as, one by one, the eleven other members of the team were killed. He’d known that they were just muscle, pawns in HYDRA’s hands, the most expendable pieces in their vast chest board; still, he’d been shaking by the time they got to a safe place.

Geddes had backhanded him, hard enough to throw his head to the side.

“Pull yourself together, Rumlow,” she barked at him. “Keep your eyes and ears open while I go and see what we’re going to do for an extraction and cleanup,” she shook her head. “Can I trust you not to get yourself killed while watching over these fuckers?”

Brock looked at the three terrified middle-aged men, tied securely and huddled together like rabbits cornered by wolves.

“Yes, captain,” he’d said, and his voice had sounded hollow even to his own ears.

“Such a fucking mess,” and then she was gone, leaving him alone with the shivering prisoners and the terrifying living weapon.

Minutes crawled by, as slowly as that one time he’d been beaten up by other street kids and left to bleed on a stinky back alley, until eventually a ring filled the room, making Brock jump and scramble for his gun.

The asset answered his phone, listening for a long moment before letting out a string of Russian. Then, there was another pause.

“да,” the asset said before hanging up. Then, he simply walked towards the prisoners, grabbed the one closest to him by the hair, pulled him into position, and shot him in the head before letting him fall like a trash bag.

Before Brock could react, the soviet was moving on to the next one, and the third prisoner was stabbing the assassin on the leg with a pen.

The Winter Soldier let out a barely human growl, broke the neck of the man he was holding, and then ripped the broken pen out of his lower thigh. When he turned to the last prisoner, the one who’d stabbed him, Brock wished he could look away, but his eyes were locked in on the asset as the Russian beat the screaming man into an unrecognizable pulp.

Only when he stopped, letting go of the bleeding mass that had once been a man, did Brock dare to talk to him.

“Are you ok? Do you need something for that wou…?” the word died unfinished as the Winter Soldier moved like a blur into his space. He must’ve tackled him, because Brock suddenly found himself on his back, with over two hundred pounds of killing muscle pressing him down, metallic fingers curled painfully on his neck and a fist connecting with his face.

He struggled like a wounded animal in his blind panic, fruitlessly trying to get the assassin off him. In some dark corner of his mind, he thought that maybe he’d be dead already if the asset had decided to hit him or do more than just hold him down with his metallic arm.

For an instant, he wanted to laugh. All the effort, all the fight during his piss poor existence, and he was going to get beaten to death by a man whose existence most of the world didn’t even acknowledge. It was a cooler way to go than other alternatives, but it would go as unnoticed as the rest of his sad, miserable life.

He pawed at the assassin without much enthusiasm, sure that he was a dead man already, when an old memory came up to his mind like a bubble in a lake. Between two punches from the Soldier, he let his hand slide down the black uniform and then grabbed at him, desperate. If it didn’t stop him, it would enrage him further, and then maybe he’d finish him off faster. In any case, he had nothing to lose.

He was on his way to unconsciousness, and so he didn’t know if his hand was even moving, when suddenly, the assassin stopped punching him. Brock opened his eyes, blinking back a worrying mix of colorful sparks and black dots, and found the Winter Soldier still on top of him, his breathing ragged behind the half mask, and his eyes curious and fixed on him.

He stared back at the assassin for a long moment, until the Russian moved on top of him, rolling his hips against the hand he still had on him. Brock let out a raspy breath and forced himself to move, to continue rubbing the assassin with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

With a string of growled Russian that Brock might not have understood even if he’d known the language, the asset got up, pulling Brock up with him to shove him against a nearby counter. Not wanting to get all cut up by broken glass or whatever, Brock swiped his arm to clear the counter of the various things on top of it, and went tamely when the assassin pushed him down, bending him over the cold surface. He undid the buckle of his belt and the various straps of his gear, not wanting to provoke the Soldier’s impatience.

The young agent felt punishing fingers dig into his hips to position him just as the assassin wanted him, and he closed his eyes right before the Winter Soldier rammed into him in a single, hard motion.

Brock grabbed the edge of the counter as the soviet fucked into him with the strength and care of a jackhammer. The idea that the Winter Soldier might still kill him once he was done made his eyes water, so he focused on the pain of his hips and thighs being crushed against the counter instead.

It seemed to go on forever, but finally, the asset slammed into him even harder a couple of times, and then he was groaning, spasming as came deep into Brock’s body. Then, he was gone from on top of him, and Brock had to hold on to the counter not to slide to the floor like a broken doll.

When he could move again, he slowly stood up, wiped the tears and blood as well as he could from his face, and then he pulled his pants up before turning around.

The asset was standing across the room, looking as cold and unaffected as ever in a room occupied by dead men and a savaged young agent.

He caught a glimpse of himself on the fragment of mirror that still hung from the wall, and almost threw up.

When Geddes came back, she stopped on the doorway and said something to the asset, who gave her a short answer that she obviously didn’t like but had to accept. Then she turned towards him.

“What the hell, Rumlow?”

He attempted a smile that he knew came out as more of a grimace.

“I… questioned him,” he said.

Geddes looked him up and down, obviously seeing everything, but didn’t say anything on the matter. Instead, she simply went on to give instructions for the extraction. Up until they were loaded on separate transports, Brock couldn’t stop looking at the asset.

Later, when he got back to base, the medical staff treated all of his injuries, but no one commented on their nature, and when he was sent to see a therapist, it was only for the harsh experience of losing all of his teammates on his first mission.

From SHIELD, he got a short suspension for getting into a bar fight that ended up with him incapacitated for over a week.

He’d feared that HYDRA was going to dispose of him, but apparently the shrink and Geddes had both agreed that he was still of use, and so the next time he heard from them, it was for another assignment.


	3. Chapter 2

****

**Two.**

Brock continued his career as an agent in both organizations. Every now and then, he heard rumors, and once even caught a glimpse of him, but it was years before he was close to HYDRA’s living weapon again.

With time and a lot of things happening in his life, Brock eventually forgot what the real reason was, but the relevant thing was that his CO during a particular mission had hated him. Maybe because of the way he’d been quickly rising through the ranks, or because he couldn’t stand his youth and cocky attitude. But whatever the reason, the thing was that the man hated his guts.

He didn’t remember the trigger, either, but knowing the incompetent son of a bitch, Brock had most likely made him look bad in front of the team or something like that. In any case, the bastard had slapped a hand down on his shoulder, clamping down hard enough to hurt as he leaned in and hissed in his hear:

“You’re dead meat, kid. You’re returning from this mission in a bag.”

Brock had given him an unpleasant smile, but his heart had started hammering against his ribs. He’d been threatened a lot of times in his life, but he knew, just by looking at the man, that this was one of the most serious ones he’d ever received.

With his CO being the one threatening him, and everyone in the team looking out for themselves, there was no help to be had. As the mission progressed, Brock knew he had to do something, or his bastard of a CO would wipe him from the face of the Earth. So he looked closely at all his chances, and then made a decision.

The asset, like HYDRA called the Winter Soldier when they wanted to pretend they didn’t like the melodrama, scared the shit out of everyone in the team. That was a fact of life, as certain as the sun burning on. The reason was no secret, either; they might all be backstabbing killers in the team, but the Winter Soldier was a killing machine. If the rep wasn’t enough to frighten someone, the dead shark-like stare of his blue eyes set in a youthful face would give anyone the creeps.

And so it was that Brock decided to approach the Russian assassin. He only needed a sign of recognition from him, or the suggestion that the assassin might know him, and his chances of staying alive would no doubt skyrocket.

The team was laying low in a rundown motel that often served as an operation base while keeping a good façade, and Brock tried to play it cool as he made his way to the room where the asset was. Ignoring the blood rushing in his ears, he tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. Maybe he shouldn’t have been, considering that bothering the man was a quick way to find yourself with a broken neck or a bullet in the head.

Questioning his sanity, Brock slipped inside the room.

The Soldier regarded him with a blank expression that almost made Brock’s blood freeze in his veins as he gaped at the Russian. The man was dressed only in black pants and was barefoot, sitting on the edge of the bed with unnatural stillness.

When he moved, it was too fast for Brock to have any reaction other than an honestly embarrassing squeal as the asset wrapped his fingers around his throat and slammed him into the wall.

“Hey,” Brock said, and he didn’t care that his voice was all shaky. “Remember me?”

The Soldier shifted a bit closer, and Brock instinctively lifted his hands to try and keep him away, one hand pushing on a marble-hard chest, the other resting on the ragged scars where the metallic limb connected with the rest of the man’s body.

And then, they didn’t move. Brock didn’t know how long they stood there, the Winter Soldier holding him where he was for long minutes, his expression little by little turning puzzled.

“Кто ты?” he asked after what felt like hours.

“What? I don’t…” the fingers around his throat shifted, and Brock immediately shut up.

The Soldier repeated the question, visibly frustrated that no answer was forthcoming.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re saying,” hell, it was a miracle that he spoke passable English, considering the life he’d led.

Brock found himself flung from the wall and onto the bed, and he wondered what was wrong with him, that the change actually made him feel relieved. The assassin straddled him, never letting go of his neck even as his face turned even more confused.

“Is that what you want?” Brock asked him, and because he was long past the point of no return, he made a bold move and touched the man, just like he’d done years ago while the Soldier beat him. “Is this what you remember?”

Apparently, it was, and Brock learned that, for some things, words weren’t necessary. He moved to get his own pants out of the way, and soon he found himself pressed face down onto the mattress. Almost desperate, he grabbed the pillow and pressed his face against it, bracing for the forceful penetration that was fast in coming.

He’d learned at a young age that fucking without lube was painful, and the Soldier was as gentle as any engine, but he’d take the pain if that meant he got to return home alive.

This time, it wasn’t quick. The pace was unrelenting, making Brock wonder if the asset was really a man, or if he was more machine than just the visible metallic arm. This time, he actually had time to get used to it, and pressure and heat alone made him sensitive and warm, if not hard.

Eventually, the asset shuddered violently, let out a growl, and then, he was still for a moment before collapsing on top of him, trapping him between his panting body and the damp sheets.

Brock didn’t dare to move, not even when a metallic hand slid over his shoulder blade, like a strange caress before the Soldier slid out of him and then got up. A moment later, he scrambled up, biting back a whine when movement made him feel all the bruising. He pulled his clothes back into order as best as he could, and when he was done, he found the asset watching him with the same confused expression as before.

“Кто ты?” something in the tone of his voice made Brock hesitate, and take a good look at him before walking towards the door. Somehow, he knew the Soldier wasn’t going to kill him while he had his back at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and strangely, he did mean it. “I don’t speak Russian.”

He slinked out of the room and into the one he shared with a few teammates, ignoring the looks fixed on him with disbelief, awe, repulsion, and even fear, as no one had any doubt of what exactly had gone on in that room.

He went directly into the filthy bathroom, and only when the door was closed behind him did he dare to break down, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound even as he cleaned himself up and the soap stung like a bitch on his abused flesh. He smirked, though, when the next morning, his CO hadn’t dared to look him in the eye.


	4. Three.

**Three.**

The Winter Soldier’s words echoed in his mind, enticing in their exotic ring, in the low voice the Russian spoke in.

Afterwards, when he started to pick up some Russian in the few minutes he had to spare in his double life, he was puzzled at their meaning.

“Who are you?” he repeated to himself, over and over, as if that could help him crack the mystery that was HYDRA’s lethal weapon.

The next time he saw the asset, he approached him in a small and dingy restroom. After he’d shoved Rumlow against a stall, the question came again.

“Кто ты?” he asked, confusion mixing with the clouds in his eyes.

“Brock,” the agent said, simply.

The assassin looked at him for a long moment, as if he didn’t understand the meaning of the single word.

Liquid hand soap wasn’t great, but it sure was a thousand times better than a dry fuck.


	5. Four.

**Four.**

Somehow, things had progressed to a point where they actually took their clothes off and tumbled onto a bed or sofa. Most of the times. At least the lube was a constant thing.

“What’s your name?” Brock asked again, this time in English, still delighted at having found that the Soldier actually knew some of the language. The asset’s broken English was still better than his own halting Russian, though he was doing an effort in learning more of it.

 “I don’t… know,” the Russian said.

“Is it classified?”

“No,” in the semi-darkness of the old files room, he could see the way the Winter Soldier’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“I won’t call you _Winter_. Even in this line of work, there’s a limit to how ridiculous a name can be,” he said conversationally as he pulled his clothes back on, trying to bring the Solder back from the fog he sometimes seemed to lose himself in. “So, you choose what you want me to call you. It should fit you, so… Yuri? Aleksei? Ivan?” he paused. “Not Ivan. The Ivan I know is an asshole.”

No answer came.

When Brock looked at him again, saying that he looked confused would have been an understatement. He looked almost pained. Brock was getting eerily familiar with that state.

“Aleksei,” he decided for him. “Is that ok for you?”

The Soldier gave him a blank stare for a few seconds.

“Da,” he finally said.

“Good. Aleksei,” Brock said, finished getting dressed, and then walked away to go about his day.


	6. Five.

**Five.**

Ever since the moment he was called up, Brock knew there was something amiss. Years of experience had taught him that rising through the ranks in HYDRA only meant that without the utmost care, things could go to hell pretty damn fast, and so while he made his way into the restricted areas of the hidden facilities, he mentally retraced every single one of his latest steps while keeping a perfectly straight face. The fact that faking calmness was second nature to him now was owed to his double life, so at least there was that. Had he fucked up something without even noticing? That wasn’t like him at all, but then, mistakes were rarely planned. Then again, it was likely that someone had just decided he knew too much and had outlived his usefulness.

He was expecting anything from the room beyond the thick steel doors, but not what was waiting inside.

The room looked like one of those unorthodox labs that made Rumlow uncomfortable, with equipment he’d rather not know the use of, but most unsettling of all was the presence of the Winter Soldier.

The asset stood there in the middle of the room, scientists poking and prodding at him with just a hint of insecurity.

“Sir,” Brock addressed the man in charge, some upper level whose name was decided Rumlow didn’t need to know.

“Agent Rumlow,” the man acknowledged him, then went back to watch as the asset let himself be guided onto a strange chair.

The contraption itself made Brock uncomfortable, but the way the Soldier behaved, letting the meek scientists manhandle him, was beyond disturbing. He was used to the Soldier following orders like a well-trained dog, but he was never submissive.

Not wanting to betray himself due to his nerves, Brock remained silent for a long moment, watching along the other guy how the techs continued taking readings and writing them down, like bees buzzing around the asset.

“You’ve completed several missions along with the asset,” the man said after a while.

“I have,” Brock responded, tearing his eyes away from the tubes they were hooking the Soldier up with.

“What do you know about him?”

“Perfectly trained soldier. Soviet. Near legendary assassin.”

The guy nodded, apparently satisfied.

Brock looked at the asset again, and found blue eyes locked on his as the Soldier tamely took a protector of sorts into his mouth when it was pushed against his mouth, and then let the scientists push him back against the backrest of the chair. The eye contact was broken as the thing hummed into life, adjusting itself to secure the asset in its metallic jaws. The agent almost felt it as the machine started up, obviously running an electric current through the Soldier’s head while doing God knew what else to him.

“He’s one of HYDRA’s specially designed weapons. One of the best,” the man paused. “And yet, you handle him with no problems.”

“We use what resources we are given to complete the missions assigned to us.”

“You use the asset for more than completing missions, according to reports.”

Brock looked at the man, at the way his eyes gleamed with perverse glee, like those of an eagle with its claws sunken deep into its prey’s flesh.

“I was not aware that it was forbidden,” he said, surprising himself when his voice came out steady.

The guy smirked in a way that made Brock remember that, despite all the horrible things he could have done in his life up to that point, he was far from the worst human trash of the world.

“Whatever other names the asset might receive sometimes, he’s not a real soldier. He’s a weapon,” he paused. “Do you know what’s happening right now?”

“No, Sir,” Rumlow answered honestly, having a hard time keeping a duly interested but neutral face as he watched the Soldier struggle against his restraints and scream in obvious agony.

“Every now and then, the asset’s memories are purged, wiped clean, and the programming returns to its initial setting. Like any other machine with a factory reset.”

Brock was sure the way his heart skipped a few beats was loud enough to be heard in the whole room, even on top of the Soldier’s animal screams. He nodded.

“That explains a lot of things,” the agent said, because it did.

“I’m sure it does,” the man looked at him with a gesture that intended to be a smile but came kilometers from one. “He remembers nothing out of the programming. What do you think about that?”

Rumlow shrugged, even as his stomach seemed to knot upon itself.

“He’s a convenient outlet. Means he won’t expect me to call later or anything.”

The son of a bitch actually laughed.

“You might have noticed that the asset is sometimes slightly… unpredictable. Unexpectedly, agent, your _handling_ of the asset seems to make him easier to handle, without need for artificial means.”

Brock waited for the rest of it, focusing on keeping himself under control and trying not to pay too much attention to the Soldier’s raw screams.

“You will continue,” the man said, in a tone that left no place for questioning. “And you will do it more regularly.”

The double agent in Brock made him let a sliver of the shock show in his face, knowing a reaction would be expected at such an instruction.

“Think of it as cleaning a rifle,” the guy said, evidently enjoying it all a lot more than could possibly be healthy.

“Yes, Sir,” Brock said.

“Go and get yourself and your team ready, then, agent. You leave for a mission in less than twelve hours, I believe.”

“Yes, Sir,” and with that, Brock was walking out again, focusing on keeping a blank mask on his face and his steps steady. He felt no relief when the steel doors closed behind him, sealing the horrific sounds inside.

Cool as gun metal, he made his way into a restroom, locked himself on a stall, and only then proceeded to empty his stomach into the toilet while his skin rose in goosebumps.

It fucking explained a lot of things, alright.

It explained why sometimes there was only cold blankness in the Soldier’s eyes, why he sometimes didn’t seem to remember that Aleksei was supposed to be him, why when that happened the man seemed to have forgotten his English, only to recover it slowly as time went by. The Soldier was supposed to learn fast and adapt to circumstances, but Rumlow suspected he didn’t actually re-learn the English every time, but rather remembered it from suppressed memories.

Even if it took a bit, the Soldier eventually remembered the name Brock had given him, eventually remembered who Brock was, at least where fucking was concerned.

Brock wiped cold sweat off his forehead.

The bastard was wrong. The Winter Soldier was a man, even if HYDRA had been trying to turn him into a machine for who knew how long.

He flushed the toilet and went to rinse his mouth and wash his face on the sink.

Looking at himself in the mirror, the agent found no traces of the previous nervousness. He steeled himself to go and find his team for the last instructions before they all went to get ready for the mission.

He had his orders… and his own plans.

“Hail, HYDRA,” he said to the mirror.

 

 


	7. Six.

**Six.**

After hearing of the successful mission near Odessa, where the asset had easily gone over the remarkable obstacle that was the infamous Black Widow, Brock was off for a few days. It was only when Rollins pointed it out that Rumlow acknowledged his own bad mood.

It took him three days and waking up violently from a restless sleep to finally realize that what was so off-putting of it all was that the Winter Soldier had been sent on a mission without him or his team.

That was the first time Brock let himself consider the possibility that perhaps it was something more than survival and obedience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miniature chapter, I know. But like I said, I wrote the chapters as I felt was needed for the story to flow like I wanted. I'll post the next one very soon, I promise!


	8. Seven

**Seven.**

Humiliating as it was, HYDRA being aware of and sanctioning his tumbling into bed with their precious asset was not without its advantages.

One of such advantages was that they got a decent enough bed, and as long as it didn’t interfere with the mission, they didn’t have to rush anything. It wasn’t paranoia, but common sense, what made Brock check the room for bugs before he was able to relax for real.

He barely had straightened up from checking the floor and under the nightstand when strong, rough arms wrapped around his torso, pulling at his clothes.

“Impatient, aren’t we?”

“It’s cold,” the Soldier said right before pushing Rumlow onto the bed.

“Then maybe we shouldn’t be taking clothes off,” Brock retorted, but didn’t make a pause in efficiently getting naked.

A rubber, a squeeze of lube, and half a second later Brock was pressed face down against the mattress, his body shivering at the contrast of the cold sheets against his front and the Soldier’s unnaturally hot body at his back. Just an instant, and then they were both adjusting to each other with the familiarity of breathing, the Russian spreading his thighs a little to adjust the height, Brock tilting his hips to get the Soldier’s cock in the angle he wanted, guiding the Soldier’s flesh hand to his own dick and groaning in pleasure when fingers wrapped around his hot erection and started pumping it.

No rushing about things meant Brock felt sore for different reasons, but it also meant that they got to lie together in bed. Tenderness was something that had been always absent from Brock’s life, but he took pride in not needing any of it; however, it was quite nice to be able to just lie there like an oversized pillow, sharing body heat while outside the wind and ice made everything miserable. It wasn’t anything special. Minus the fucking, he’d done more or less the same thing with Rollins and other teammates along the years when the alternative was to wake up with frozen fingers.

“Aleksei,” Rumlow started, feeling a bit sleepy where mere minutes before he’d been sure he wouldn’t be able to even relax with that wretched weather, “do you remember the place you were born in? Was it cold?”

The Soldier’s brows furrowed, but no answer came.

“I only knew the ugly parts of the city I was born in. Of course, everywhere is cold when you’re living in the streets… but since I didn’t freeze to death, I guess it wasn’t that bad.”

“No,” the asset said, but Brock knew that it wasn’t an answer for him.

“What?” the agent asked. “It wasn’t cold?”

“James,” the Soldier said, in an English that held almost no hint of the familiar soviet accent. “My name’s not Aleksei, but James.”

Rumlow looked at him, finding blue eyes as confused as his own in the Winter Soldier’s face.

This, too, changed what he thought he knew about the Winter Soldier. Wasn’t he Russian? He was supposed to be Russian, but James was definitely not a Russian name.

The arm over his torso, thrown there just for convenience sake in the rather small bed, was tense, so Brock decided not to question him anymore.

Little by little, the tension melted away, and they went back to lie there in the darkness, pressed close together for warmth. Brock slept, but he couldn’t keep himself from wondering who the asset really was, or rather, who he’d been before HYDRA had turned him into their secret weapon. Had he been a field agent, just like him? Was he British? American, even? Just how much was there in the Winter Soldier’s head, buried deep under harsh training and harsher conditioning?

Brock could have lost his mind thinking about it.


	9. Eight

**Eight.**

There was no such thing as perfection, and everyone fucked up eventually.

Brock wasn’t sure when or how it happened, but he knew for a fact that he’d been careless at some point. Maybe he’d missed a bug or a camera, maybe he’d been too indiscrete when he fucked the Winter Soldier.

If HYDRA could take an obviously brilliant and strong young man and turn him into their machine-like weapon, then the possibility of them having the tech to read someone’s mind didn’t seem so farfetched. Brock hadn’t wanted to even consider the possibility. If someone had taken a glimpse at his thoughts, then they’d know that he was seriously considering leaving. He was damn sure he wasn’t the only one on HYDRA’s payroll to long for freedom from the organization’s clutches, and he wasn’t even thinking of selling his knowledge to any of their numerous enemies… but what he was actively considering might be even worse. Because he had never planned on attempting his scape alone.

At some point, he’d decided that he’d somehow steal their living weapon, and then, he’d drop off the grid. He thought he could pull it off, too, since he wasn’t among those who planned on retiring to a fucking island in the Caribbean or anything fancy. Survival was good enough for him, had always been, so he could do just fine with a small, unremarkable place, as long as it was comfortably warm and dry, with clean water and decent food available.

He’d barely allowed himself to think about it, hadn’t said a word to anyone… hell, he hadn’t even said it aloud to himself, if he recalled correctly. The only step towards that still-forming plan that he’d taken was starting to build a stash of cash in his apartment.

So unless he’d royally fucked up and given himself away, or he was right about the mind-reading technology, he could think of no reason for his new assignment.

Sure, he took pride on his skill and the edge that only experience had given him, but he knew there were others who could undertake this new task. Working with the Winter Soldier as he did, not so much.

In any case, the fact was that he was to be working with SHIELD technically full-time, putting serious effort into his work to advance his career and place himself in a strategical vantage point. In paper, it would look like an opportunity presenting itself and Brock taking it and excelling at it. It would be an important, interesting, challenging job. It would take him away from the asset for who knew how long, maybe for good. It would take him away from James.

Tightening his jaw, Brock accepted the new mission and tried his damnedest not to let his emotions show on his face. He thought he succeeded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to post this chapter. 
> 
> I just moved out to a new house, and the internet company has yet to deign themselves to go and install my connection. On top of that, work's been even busier than usual, which is already busy on a good day xD
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like what comes next :3


	10. Nine

**Nine.**

Brock reported back to HYDRA every now and then, passing on information or updates, but his orders remained the same: work his way high into SHIELD. In the meanwhile, he couldn’t stop thinking about the Winter Soldier, but the closest he came to any contact were whispers in the wind, like catching a whiff of an urban legend. He couldn’t stop wondering if he’d spoken something aloud, if he’d been too affectionate as they touched each other, if he’d somehow let himself betray the attachment he’d developed for the asset.

Years went by just like that.

And then, there came Insight. The ultimate plan to overtake… everything.

He’d done his best to hide his excitement at working with James again, at being close again.

Whatever he’d expected, he’d been disappointed. He’d witnessed as they wiped the asset’s mind more times than he could ever be comfortable with, he’d watched as James came out of the process looking every bit the machine they’d tried to turn him into, his expression blank and only the mission in his head… until he remembered him.

This time, though, he executed the mission, expertly going through the motions while he waited for James to come back to him, to remember him like he always had in the past.

The Winter Soldier sat next to him in the transport and didn’t show the slightest hint of recognition. He barked orders in Russian without a second look at him. Brock called him Aleksei, and the asset didn’t react at all. He tried the name James in the next chance he got, and the look of confusion lasted only an instant in his blue eyes, before dissipating like fog under the warm rays of the sun.

Brock went with the team after Captain America and the others escaped from them, still hoping for the memories to resurface as he knew they had to do eventually. Instead, he saw the asset fixate on the Captain, insist that he knew him. He still hoped to see even a hint of recognition in those blue eyes as the scientists strapped him onto the damned chair, cringed as he heard him scream just as he’d done so many times before.

In the organized chaos that came before the big operation, he ferreted out some classified files. Most of it was in Russian and didn’t make a lot of sense, but he knew it was the Winter Soldier’s file, and though Brock had never been a genius, he wasn’t stupid either, and he only needed the name of James Buchanan Barnes to put the pieces together. He almost laughed at himself, at the sheer irony that was his life.

A new plan started to take form in his mind. He’d put it in motion right in the middle of the chaos that would ensue. He wasn’t sure how, yet, but by the time Insight’s dust settled, he’d be gone, along with the man whose existence HYDRA had perverted. He had a short time to work out the details, but he’d always been good at multitasking.

His mind didn’t stop mulling over it even as he fought Wilson.

The planning only stopped when the fucking Triskelion collapsed on top of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, as you can see, this chapter brings us to the point where the epilogue started. Only one more chapter to go!  
> I still have no internet connection, because internet companies sucking seems to be a world-spread disease.


	11. Ten

**Ten.**

Brock thought he knew what fighting bulls felt like. It wasn’t only the physical pain, but the certainty that he’d apparently been born for the sole benefit and entertainment of others. There was pain everywhere, and no escape from it.

It took a damn long time for him to recover. Or so he thought until he saw the list of the injuries he’d sustained. It was a miracle he’d even survived.

With the horrid scarring on his body and around his eyes, it did look like the kind of miracle HYDRA favored, too.

Thinking back on things, he shouldn’t have survived such extensive damage. Even if he didn’t look that good, he felt like new, and he knew that something was off. He asked one of the doctors what else had been done to him, and the way the man scrambled before assuring him nothing out of the ordinary had been done was enough to let him know there had indeed been more than simple medical care involved in his recovery.

Once more, he found himself receiving orders from HYDRA, and agreeing to them because they happened to align themselves with his own personal motives. Letting the higher ups think he would do their bidding like a loyal dog was a piece of cake. They themselves had made him one of the fucking best double agents there were. Hail, HYDRA, indeed.

It took him less than two months to locate the rogue asset, but that was the easy part.

James Buchanan Barnes, Captain America’s childhood friend, spent his time surrounded by the fucking Avengers, in a damn building whose security system surely made HYDRA’s most complex systems look like a child’s jigsaw puzzle.

When he finally approached him, it was divested of the ridiculous new gear they’d given him.

James recognized him, alright. Just, not as the man who’d spent long years caring for him in silence, but as one of the men who’d tried to capture and then kill Steve Rogers, as the STRIKE captain who’d fought Sam Wilson, as part of the organization that had toyed with his life and made him into a mindless, killing slave.

“James,” he’d pleaded as he tried his best to hold his ground against the man who’d once been the Winter Soldier. Whatever HYDRA had secretly done to him had ensured he survived, and had made him stronger and faster, but while he could fight James for a while, he was no match for James backed up by the Avengers.

Caution had never bought him anything, pain and blood had only given him one more day of miserable existence at a time, and he’d survived, just holding on like a tick on a sick stray mutt.

A metal fist connected fully with his forehead, and left him seeing stars.

Brock still hoped for a spark of recognition as his legs gave and he fell to the asphalt with James on top of him. He tried to use his hands to push him up at least a little, to make him take a good look at him and maybe trigger a memory. But how could he hope to have anything of the sort after so many years? It had been too long since the last time, James’ mind had been wiped too many times since then and the memory of Brock had never been deep enough for him to really remember him; and now, the angry scars on his face ensured that not even the image was familiar anymore.

Hands closed around his throat, and pure instinctive reflex made him reach out, grab at the long, unkempt brown hair he’d caressed subtly so many times. As metal fingers wrapped around his forearm, tearing his hand from the familiar hair, Brock regretted many things. He should have held him properly. He should have kissed him. He should have taken the chance that he might remember if he told him even tough sons of bitches like him had feelings every now and then. He should have… at least once.

For the first time in his life, as fingers tightened more and more around his throat, Brock gave up.

After all, it had always been about survival for him. Only living things were capable of survival. And all living things died, eventually.

At least, he’d been able to see James free of the clutches of HYDRA. He told himself he could take comfort in that.

Like most things he told himself, it sounded like a lie, and it didn’t take.

“Aleksei,” Brock tried to say, but James’ fingers kept getting tighter and tighter, and he couldn’t breathe anymore. There was a cracking sound that he felt more than heard, something snapped, and the world ceased to exist in a darkness bitter and absolute, like drowning in tar.

 

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...or is it?


	12. Epilogue

**Epilogue.**

“Hey, wake up!”

There were not-too-gentle pats on his cheek, and Brock opened his eyes, only to close them again when the light blinded him as if he’d come out of absolute penumbra. He groaned his discomfort, and immediately regretted it, as his throat felt as raw as if he’d swallowed a cup of ground glass. Without water.

“Hey!” came a protest nearby.

“Tony, what the heck?!” demanded yet another voice.

There was some insistent prodding on his side.

“Will you wake up already?” the first voice insisted.

“Cut it out or I’ll cut your fucking arm off,” one of the other voices threatened, slightly familiar, and the prodding stopped.

Brock tried to lift his right arm to shield his eyes from the light, but found it to be heavy and restrained, so he switched to his left one. Then, he slowly opened his eyes, blinking as his eyes adjusted.

“What…?” he started, but his throat protested so hard that he choked on his words and started to cough. He wondered for an instant if he’d received a wound directly to his throat. And then, everything came back in a tumble.

“There, he’s alive. Everyone can stop with the overwhelming angst already,” Tony fucking Stark was saying as he turned around and walked out of the room, which was occupied by whom appeared to be the rest of the Avengers.

A mug was pressed against his left hand, and pure reflex made him drink the lukewarm water, even as he realized it was James who had given him the water and was now standing right next to his bed.

He stared at him.

The first thing he noticed was that his hair was, for once, in relative order, like he’d brushed it at some point in recent history. The second one was that he wasn’t looking at him like someone would look at an enemy, or even a prisoner.

There was a violent conflict in his blue eyes, where he’d seen confusion and uncertainty so many times before. There were none of those things in them this time. Then, there was only the overwhelming sensation of lips against his, hesitant only for the blink of an eye, then hungry and almost desperate.

His left hand tangled in brown hair, and his shoulders were encircled by flesh and metal arms. If not for the pain in various parts of his body and how awkward their lack of practice made that first kiss, Brock would have suspected he was actually dead, or dreaming. But the imperfection of it all made it real.

 

When another coughing fit made them break apart, Brock dared to look at him and give him a lopsided smile after he’d drank a few sips of water.

“You…” and more coughing.

James frowned as he gave him even more water.

“Don’t try to talk anymore,” a pause. “I broke your arm,” he nodded towards Rumlow’s right forearm, which was in a cast and strapped down to the improvised hospital bed. Then he said, almost shyly, “and half-crushed your throat.”

Brock shook his head and gave him another smile. The metallic taste and the humidity on his skin made him realize he’d probably reopened his split lip with the earlier enthusiastic kissing.

James leaned forward and licked the blood clean before kissing him again, slower and a lot gentler this time. It tasted like blood. It hurt a little. Somehow, it seemed appropriate.

When James pulled away, he looked almost pained.

“For a moment, I was sure I had killed you.”

“ _You didn’t,”_ Brock mouthed.

James looked away for a moment.

“I’m so sorry. The whole situation felt familiar. But that happens so often now, that I don’t trust my guts all the time,” he made a long pause. “It was the name, you know? Aleksei.”

“ _Not your name,_ ” Brock mouthed again.

“It was when you gave it to me, though. It might have been the only thing anyone gave me in all that time.”

Rumlow let his eyes roam the strange room, and only then did he realize that at some point, everyone else had vacated the room to leave them alone.

“Where..?” he attempted again, but stopped before he started coughing again. James gave him a reproachful look, before his own blue eyes did a quick take of the room.

“Avengers tower,” James said. “Don’t worry. Howard’s kid said something to Steve about rather having him bring home flea-infested strays instead of former HYDRA operatives… but I don’t think he’ll seriously kick us out,” his metallic hand caressed Brock’s uninjured arm, with a gentleness unexpected of the strong limb.

Brock opened his mouth again, but desisted when James gave him another acidic warning glare.

“Even if he does,” he continued, pulling his chair so he could lean closer to the former STRIKE captain, “we’ll survive. We’re tough shit, right? We’d figure something out.”

Brock shifted a little to get closer to James. Perhaps it was a good thing that he couldn’t speak right then, because who knew what kind of embarrassing shit he might have said otherwise. As things were, James didn’t say a thing about the moisture running down his cheeks as they kissed again, slow and long, and intense despite the gentleness.

For the second time in his life, and in the ridiculous span of a few days, Rumlow gave up. Except this time, he felt utterly, devastatingly happy.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So in these days, I got this strange, unexplainable fixation with Brock Rumlow. Honestly, I have no idea where it came from.  
> In any case, since he won't get out of my head, I wrote this little something. It's already finished, but needs some editing, which I'll be doing as I post. If you find any mistakes, please let me know.
> 
> Chapters' length is extremely irregular, and this is a rather short fic.
> 
> Also, don't worry. I haven't dropped my Grimm fic. I promise it will be finished in the foreseeable future!
> 
> Thanks for reading! And of course, for any kudos or comments. They are a great motivation to keep writing!


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